Maggie's Farm

Saw them last night. I think everyone still misses Duane, and Dicky Betts. However, they are wonderful, and they do some jazz too - they had a sax player. At the end of Melissa, every boat in the harbor was tooting. But Sonny Boy Williamson's One Way Out was my favorite. They played until 1 a.m. Live at the Fillmore? I was there.

 

Jones Beach, on the south shore of Long Island (Atlantic), receives more visitors annually than Yellowstone and Yosemite combined.

Humans do like beaches. It's a big one, and a fine birding spot during the fall and winter. It's New York City's beach - the people's back yard, and one of the world's great beaches.

And no condos and no shops - the narrow barrier island is a 2400-acre NY State Park. It has some remarkable heron and egret rookeries. In winter, it's good for Snowy Owls, Rough-legged hawks, Gannets, Bonaparte's and other interesting or rare gulls, the occasional alcid (murres, razorbills, and auks), and plenty of Harbor Seals in the surf, which, at first, you think is someone's Lab taking a swim - until they dive. Plenty of Myrtle Warblers over-wintering on the bayberries.

But in the summer, it is Coppertone time - time to strut your good stuff - and no-one is stalking through the scrub and poison ivy looking for birds of the feathered variety.

Photo from the above link.

Reposted from June, 2005:

Music without Magic

That's the title of Hoffman's piece in the Wilson Quarterly. It mainly addresses the psychological effects of art music and the failure of much 20th Century art music to gain an audience. A quote:

But just how does our gracious Art exercise these powers? How does it comfort us, charm us, kindle our hearts? We might start our search for answers by positing two fundamentals: a fundamental pain and a fundamental quest. A fundamental pain of our human condition is loneliness. No surprise here: We’re born alone, we’re alone in our consciousness, we die alone, and, when loved ones die, we’re left alone. And pain itself, including physical pain, isolates us and makes us feel still more alone, completing a vicious circle. Our fundamental quest—by no means unrelated to our aloneness and our loneliness—is the quest for meaning, the quest to make sense of our time on earth, to make sense of time itself.

Where does music come in? Music is both a balm for loneliness and a powerful, renewable source of meaning—meaning in time and meaning for time. The first thing music does is banish silence. Silence is at once a metaphor for loneliness and the thing itself: It’s a loneliness of the senses. Music overcomes silence, replaces it. It provides us with a companion by occupying our senses—and, through our senses, our minds, our thoughts. It has, quite literally, a presence. We know that sound and touch are the only sensual stimuli that literally move us, that make parts of us move: Sound waves make the tiny hairs in our inner ears vibrate, and, if sound waves are strong enough, they can make our whole bodies vibrate. We might even say, therefore, that sound is a form of touch, and that in its own way music is able to reach out and put an arm around us. 

Read entire here, and if you have the time, read the erudite comments posted below the article.

That's Gaelic for "water of life." This site has the history of Scotch whiskey, known around the world as plain Whiskey, except in the US and Canada, where we also have cheap Canadadadian whisky for a cheap drunk, and rich, smoky, earthy, sweet Bourbon from deep in the Southern hollers. We like Maker's Mark, for bourbon. For holiday eggnog - any bourbon, and never rum. But Scotch whiskeys are the ultimate expression of the distiller's God-given art.

Reposted from Feb 20, 2005

This in from Vermont's Northeast Kingdom:

Ayup, well, I shot that fat sucker on Friday night under the barn light while the dogs were sleepin - a nice head-shot but not too difficult from the porch - and took yer advice and marinated that meat in olive oil, thyme and garlic and a bit of vinegar overnight - well, actually til this afternoon, then I gave it a hit of soy sauce and salt and pepper and threw it on that old -----   ----grill out back with a pile of hickory sticks - shagbark it was. Wasn't half-bad. Fancier and Frenchier than I'm used to, but not too bad. Jes don't give me that shallot -----, or tell me to cook my raccoon rare, or over meskeet. Food is done when it is cooked, and if I find some meskeet in my woods, I'll try it. But I ain't goin that far Frenchie. That was a fat son of a b. - got my supper for the next three days too, ayup.

For more of his stuff, click here. He has not written for Maggie's, really, since he got hitched. Maybe he will write some more after the honeymoon phase is over.

Hull Speed = 1.34 X (LWL)^1/2

^{Non-sailors often do not know that the maximum speed of a boat is limited by its LWL (length at waterline).}

^{Very interesting, practical math. Wind load, capsize formula, true and apparent wind - all the cool sailing calculations, here.}

Reposted from May, 2005:

Roger Kimball, author of Tenured Radicals, with an essay: Re-Taking the University

Samples:

"Academic life, like the rest of social life, unfolds within a frame of rules and permissions. At one end, there are things that one must (or must not) do; at the other end, there is rule of whim. The middle range, in which behavior is neither explicitly governed by rules but is not entirely free, is that realm governed by what the British jurist John Fletcher Moulton, writing in the early 1920s, called “Obedience to the Unenforceable.” It is a realm in which not law, not caprice, but virtues such as duty, fairness, judgment, and taste hold sway. In a word, it is the “domain of Manners,” which “covers all cases of right doing where there is no one to make you do it but yourself.” A good index of the health of any social institution is its allegiance to the strictures that define this middle realm. “In the changes that are taking place in the world around us,” Moulton wrote, “one of those which is fraught with grave peril is the discredit into which this idea of the middle land is falling.” One example was the abuse of free speech in political debate: “We have unrestricted freedom of debate,” say the radicals: “We will use it so as to destroy debate.”  "

and:

"Many parents are alarmed, rightly so, at the spectacle of their children going off to college one year and coming back the next having jettisoned every moral, religious, social, and political scruple that they had been brought up to believe. Why should parents fund the moral de-civilization of their children at the hands of tenured antinomians? Why should alumni generously support an alma mater whose political and educational principles nourish a world view that is not simply different from but diametrically opposed to the one they endorse? Why should trustees preside over an institution whose faculty systematically repudiates the pedagogical mission they, as trustees, have committed themselves to uphold? These are questions that should be asked early and asked often."

Read entire.

This came in over the transom:

STORY NUMBER ONE

Many years ago, Al Capone virtually owned Chicago.Capone wasn't famous for anything heroic. He was notorious for enmeshing the windy city in everything from bootlegged booze and prostitution to murder.

Capone had a lawyer nicknamed "Easy Eddie." He was his lawyer for a good reason. Eddie was very good! In fact, Eddie's skill at legal maneuvering kept Big Al out of jail for a long time.

To show his appreciation, Capone paid him very well. Not only was the
money big, but also, Eddie got special dividends. For instance, he and his
family occupied a fenced-in mansion with live-in help and all of the
conveniences of the day. The estate was so large that it filled an entire
Chicago City block. Eddie lived the high life of the Chicago mob and gave little consideration to the atrocity that went on around him. Eddie did have one soft spot, however. He had a son that he loved dearly.

Eddie saw to it that his young son had clothes, cars, and a good education. Nothing was withheld. Price was no object. And, despite his involvement with organized crime, Eddie even tried to teach him right from wrong. Eddie wanted his son to be a better man than he was. Yet, with all his wealth and influence, there were two things he could not give his son; he could not pass on a good name or a good example.

One day, Easy Eddie reached a difficult decision. Easy Eddie wanted to
rectify wrongs he had done. He decided he would go to the authorities and tell the truth about Al "Scarface" Capone, clean up his tarnished name, and offer his son some semblance of integrity. To do this, he would have to testify against The Mob, and he knew that the cost would be great. So, he testified.
 
Within the year, Easy Eddie's life ended in a blaze of gunfire on a lonely
Chicago Street. But in his eyes, he had given his son the greatest gift he
had to offer, at the greatest price he could ever pay. Police removed from
his pockets a rosary, a crucifix, a religious medallion, and a poem clipped
from a magazine.

The poem read:

The clock of life is wound but once,
And no man has the power
To tell just when the hands will stop
At late or early hour.
Now is the only time you own.
Live, love, toil with a will.
Place no faith in time.
For the clock may soon be still.

__________________________________________
STORY NUMBER TWO

World War II produced many heroes. One such man was Lieutenant Commander Butch O'Hare. He was a fighter pilot assigned to the aircraft carrier Lexington in the South Pacific. One day his entire squadron was sent on a mission.

After he was airborne, he looked at his fuel gauge and realized that
someone had forgotten to top off his fuel tank.He would not have enough fuel to complete his mission and get back to his ship. His flight leader told him to return to the carrier. Reluctantly, he dropped out of formation and headed back to the fleet.

As he was returning to the UsS.S. Lexington he saw something that turned his blood cold: a squadron of Japanese aircraft were speeding their way toward  the American fleet. The American fighters were gone on a sortie, and the fleet was all but defenseless. He could not reach his squadron and bring them back in time to save thefleet. Nor could he warn the fleet of the  approaching danger.

There was only one thing to do. He must somehow divert them from the fleet. Laying aside all thoughts of personal safety, he dove into the formation of Japanese planes.

Wing-mounted 50 caliber's blazed as he charged in, attacking one surprised enemy plane and then another. Butch wove in and out of the now broken formation and fired at as many planes as possible until all his ammunition was finally spent. Undaunted, he continued the assault. He dove at the planes, trying to clip a wing or tail in hopes of damaging as many enemy planes as possible and rendering them unfit to fly. Finally, the exasperated Japanese squadron took off in another direction.

Deeply relieved, Butch O'Hare and his tattered fighter limped back to the
carrier.

Upon arrival, he reported in and related the event surrounding his return. The film from the gun-camera mounted on his plane told the tale. It showed  the extent of Butch's daring attempt to protect his fleet. He had, in fact, destroyed five enemy aircraft.

This took place on February 20, 1942, and for that action Butch became the Navy's first Ace of W.W. II, and the first Naval Aviator to win the
Congressional Medal of Honor. A year later Butch was killed in aerial combat at the age of 29.

His home town would not allow the memory of this WW II hero to fade,and today, O'Hare Airport in Chicago is named in tribute to the courage of this great man.

So, the next time you find yourself at O'Hare International, give some thought to visiting Butch's memorial displaying his statue and his Medal of Honor, and an F4F-3 Wildcat similar to Butch's.

It is located between Terminals 1 and 2.
********************************************
SO WHAT DO THESE TWO STORIES HAVE TO DO WITH EACH OTHER?

Butch O'Hare was "Easy Eddie's" son.

Add his voice, as you read:

If I said to you, "I have a great idea for a business. I'll open a whole new type of coffee shop. Instead of charging 60 cents for coffee  I'll charge $2.50, $3.50, $4.50, and $5.50.

Not only that, I'll have no tables, no chairs, no water, no free refills, no waiters, no busboys, serve it in cardboard cups, & have the customer clean up for 20 minutes after they're finished."

Would you say to me, "That's the greatest idea for a business I ever heard! We can open a chain of these all over the world!"

No, you would put me right into a sanitarium.

And it's burnt coffee! It's burnt coffee at Starbuck's, be honest about it. If you get burnt coffee in a coffee shop, you call a cop. You say,"It's the bottom of the pot. I don't drink from the bottom of the pot.

But when it's burnt at Starbuck's, they say, "Oh, it's a special roast. It's a special bean from Argentina....

"The bean is in your head!!! I know burnt!!!

You want coffee in a coffee shop, that's 60 cents. But at Starbuck's, if it's Cafe Latte: $3.50. Café Creamier: $4.50. Café Suisse: $9.50. For each French word, another $4.00.

Why does a little cream in coffee make it worth $3.50?

Go into any coffee shop; they'll give you all the cream you want until you're blue in the face.

40 million people are walking around in coffee shops with pitchers of cream: "Here's all the cream you want!" And it's still 60 cents. You know why? Because it's called "coffee."

You want cinnamon in your coffee? Ask for cinnamon in a coffee shop; they'll give you all the cinnamon you want.

Do they ask you for more money because it's cinnamon? It's the same price for cinnamon in your coffee as for coffee without cinnamon - 60 cents, that's it.

But not in Starbucks. Over there, it's Cinnamonnier - $9.50. You want a refill in a regular coffee shop, they'll give you all the refills you want until you drop dead. You can come in when you're 27 & keep drinking coffee until you're 98. And they'll start begging you: "Here, You want more coffee?"

Do you know that you can't get a free refill at Starbucks?

A refill is a $1.50, 2 refills, $4.50, 3 refills, $19.50.

So, for 4 cups of coffee - $35.00.

And there're no chairs in those Starbucks. Instead, they have these high stools. You ever see these stools? You haven't been on a chair that high since you were 2. Seventy-three year olds are climbing &climbing to get to the top of the chair. And when they get to the top, they can't even drink the coffee because there's 12 people around one ittle table, & everybody's saying, "Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me....." Then they can't get off the chair.

Do you remember what a cafeteria was? In poor neighborhoods all over this country, they went to a cafeteria because there were no waiters & no service. And so poor people could save money on a tip.

Cafeterias didn't have regular tables or chairs either. They gave coffee to you in a cardboard cup. So because of that you paid less for the coffee. You got less, so you paid less.

It's all the same at Starbucks - no chairs, no service, a cardboard cup for your Coffee - except in Starbucks, the less you get, the more it costs. By the time they give you nothing, it's worth 4 times as much!

SELF-ESTEEM, n. An erroneous appraisement.

CARTESIAN, adj. Relating to Descartes, a famous philosopher, author of the celebrated dictum, Cogito ergo sum — whereby he was pleased to suppose he demonstrated the reality of human existence. The dictum might be improved, however, thus: Cogito cogito ergo cogito sum — “I think that I think, therefore I think that I am;” as close an approach to certainty as any philosopher has yet made.

Those are two from Bierce's The Devil's Dictionary, from Middlebrow, who has a good piece, with good links, on Bierce.

Rackham (1886-1939) is considered the greatest illustrator of all time, illustrating Alice in Wonderland, Grimm's Fairy Tales, Peter Pan, and much more. This is Siegfried and Brunhilde from his Das Rheingold illustrations.

 

 

Just stopped by the neighbors while doing yard work in the twilight and lamplight. They are having a teen party. I said: "If you don't turn that music UP, I am going to call the cops."

The Mom said: "We are lucky to have you as a neighbor." Call me Mr. Rogers (who I did love - how could you not?).

Stolen from Mr. Free Market:

A successful rancher died and left everything to his devoted wife. She was a very good-looking woman and determined to keep the ranch, but knew very little about ranching, so she decided to place an ad in the newspaper for a ranch hand. Two cowboys applied for the job. One was gay and the other a drunk. She thought long and hard about it, and when no one else applied she decided to hire the gay guy, figuring it would be safer to have him around the house than the drunk.

He proved to be a hard worker who put in long hours every day and knew a lot about ranching. For weeks, the two of them worked, and the ranch was doing very well.

Then one day, the rancher's widow said to the hired hand, "You have done a really good job, and the ranch looks great. You should go into town and kick up your heels." The hired hand readily agreed and went into town one Saturday night.

One o'clock came, however, and he didn't return. Two o'clock, and no hired hand. He returned around two-thirty, and upon entering the room, he found the rancher's widow sitting by the fireplace with a glass of wine, waiting for him.

She quietly called him over to her. "Unbutton my blouse and take it off," she said. Trembling, he did as she directed. "Now take off my boots." He did as she asked, ever so slowly. "Now take off my socks." He removed each gently and placed them neatly by her boots. "Now take off my skirt." He slowly unbuttoned it, constantly watching her eyes in the fire light. "Now take off my bra." Again, with trembling hands, he did as he was told and dropped it to the floor.

Then she looked at him and said, "If you ever wear my clothes into town again, you're fired."

A reader showed us Librivox - free downloads of readings of literature in the public domain, read by volunteers. This is the real use of ipods. Their catalog is not long, yet.

When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now,
Will you still be sending me a Valentine,birthday greetings, bottle of wine?
If I'd been out 'till quarter to three,would you lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four?

McCartney update here at BBC. The full lyrics here.

Everybody has been at the golf Open at Winged Foot this week. No-one in New England or New York has been working. Boring, if you ask me, but it's not my game.

But the Newport-Bermuda Race began yesterday. Your editor Bird Dog has always wanted to be asked to crew, but has never been asked, doubtless for good reason. He is blessed with a good feel for the sea, including a certain kind of comfort, or even joy, with very nasty and scary seas, but is cursed with some sort of ineptitude when it comes to practical mechanisms and instant decision-making. And a race in which things do not break is a bore - but something always does break on boats.

You can follow the race here. I only know one skipper in the race this year. Is it highly physical? You bet, unless it is one of those dull races with no wind from start to glorious finish, with drinks and abundant hot showers, at the Royal Bermuda Yacht Club in wonderful Bermuda. This 635 mile race is so long that a good start doesn't matter, but you have to keep your crew focused, energized, and on the ball. Why not try for a good start?  Photo from just before the starting gun in Newport, RI, below:

 

Sometimes I wonder whether Gaghdad Bob is just putting us on, or crazy, or (which I usually think), a good translator of logos-centered metaphysics for the metaphysically-impaired masses (such as me).

So before we can even say anything else whatsoever about the cosmos, we have to concede that it is the kind of cosmos in which some things can symbolize and stand for other things--almost as if the cosmos were having some kind of complex conversation with itself even before we got here. When they study creation, scientific Adams are simply eavesdropping on the conversation. If that weren’t true, there would be nothing we could say or know about the cosmos.

Normally, when we think of information, we think of communication. The purpose of language, for example, is to communicate. But the cosmos was full of information before there were any sentient beings to unpack the message. Now that we’re here, we can do that.

If you want to read a short essay I very much enjoyed, with those paragraphs in it, here it is. 

Image: Why the photo of Dr. Bliss waking up on a sunny morning? The photo is a mere symbol, plus a good, succinct piece of communication from the cosmos, plus I owe a photo to our reader Santay.

Metaphysics? Can we please discuss something useful, like waterfowl ammo in the post-lead era? This is supposed to be a "grounding" blog. Re this cartoon: ducks see color. Deer cannot. This cartoonist never hunted ducks, or the guy wouldn't be wearing a blaze orange hat: